This War of Mine Novellisation
by MadRedX12
Summary: In the midst of a great war, a strange and varied group of people find themselves stuck together as they hide in a abandoned mansion. Cut off from any hope of rescue or recruitment into a gang or military squad, they must learn to work together in order to survive in a constant, brutal struggle for survival, day after day, no matter the cost. But in war, not everyone is a soldier.
1. The Night The Bombs Fell

_BOOM._

A distant blast of noise echoed throughout the mansion. It had been days since the cacophony of horror had begun, and those hidden within the darkness of the manor could no longer distinguish the rumbles of distant thunder from the explosions of the bomb shells around it.

At this point, they no longer cared which was which. They were scared all the same.

Christo held his little Iskra ever closer as she shivered in his arms - whether it be from cold or fear, he did not know. She just continued to hold onto her father in the darkness under the table, her wet, salty tears slowly streaking down her face and dripping onto him as the rumbling reverberated through the building.

Roman sat propped against the overturned table, his hair and back drenched in sweat. His fingers perpetually curled around the rusty knife he held so close, he slowly peeked his head above the roof of the makeshift barricade to look at the window next to the rickety wooden door. As if on cue, a blast of bright light filled the window followed by a louder explosion than before, forcing the former soldier to cower back beneath his wooden shield. The bombs were getting closer.

_BOOM. BOOM._

In the basement beneath, two families were cowering. Luka was bawling his eyes out, his sobs only slightly muffled by Ana's tight embrace. Boris's long arms wrapped around them both, desperately trying to grant at least some kind of comfort to them. Lydia and Kalina were held in the arms of Marko and Alina respectively, both parents quietly whispering words of comfort to their terrified daughters. On the opposite side of the room, Bruno and Emilia held their heads beneath the pillows, mostly out of annoyance at the sound of Luka's wailing but harbouring a hidden fear of the bombing behind their identical spectacles, just like the others.

_BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._

On the uppermost floor, the simple rainwater collector was filling up as the storm continued to thrash the building. The single window to the face of the building was locked shut, the occasional shelling providing it with a brief light that showcased the dirt and grime that coated the glass. Only three feet away from the window, Anton sat on the only hard wooden chair on the floor, staring out through his binoculars. While he held fear in his heart, he was trying to use his old eyes to spot where the next bomb would hit. Cveta cowered behind him, prepared to quickly pull the old man out of the way if a bomb struck nearby. Pavle leaned against the wall, trying to appear calm and courageous in the face of peril but clearly having a hard time keeping his cool in such a situation. Zlata, in direct contrast, was making no attempt to appear brave, pulling the blue fabric of the sleeping bag over her head as the explosions continued.

_BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._

Arica clutched the bottle of pills tightly in her bloodstained, dirty quaking hands, holding it close to her vomit-covered shirt as the sick woman sat on the floor of the "bathroom". It could not really be considered a proper bathroom, as that would imply that one could wash themselves in that place. This bathroom, on the other hand, had no running water, and the bath wasn't really a bath – just another bed that was used by one lucky member of this ragtag band to sleep somewhere other than the floor or a sleeping bag. In the bathtub, Irina lay almost motionless, her face white and gleaming with pearls of sweat. Resting her legs, wrapped in bloodied bandages, on the edges of the tub, she was far away, but still listening to the far-off sounds of the explosions of the bombs and the closer, occasional sound of Arica's regurgitation as her empty stomach somehow managed to forceful expel a thin, slimy fluid from her ill body.

_BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._

Curled up against the still-locked door, Katia and Marin each held one of the last two cups of coffee. The bland, low-quality blend in normal circumstances was enough to instantly calm the duo, but in these circumstances, it was only just enough to keep them from completely freaking out. Marin's matted black hair, unwashed for weeks, was glistening with moisture, but his face was still and stoic. Katia, on the other hand, was much less calm, shaking as she slowly sipped the lukewarm beverage in her hands while the explosions still persisted in their rage outside.

_BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._

Outside in the treehouse that had been converted into a makeshift watchtower, the bombs were visibly drawing closer to the wooden prison. As another blast shook the land, Misha flinched and clamped his hands over his ears to try and block out at least some of the devastating noise. Henrik's arm was wrapped tightly around Ivano's quaking shoulders as he tried his hardest to make him aware that he was not alone in this nightmare. Sergei, completely unopposed, sat near the entrance of the airborne shack, cautiously watching the planes above as they attacked the neighbourhood. He was different from the others. He was not scared by the shells that fell.

_BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._

* * *

Silence. Beautiful silence.

The unnatural beauty of the silence had tossed its blanket of comfort over the manor. All that could be heard now was the soft pitter-patter of rain and the whistling of the wind as it blew past the holes that had been blown through the battered building long before the bombing of the night.

Slow as a tortoise, Christo poked his head from out from under the table. With the deadly silence still filling the air, he began to crawl from under the furniture's shelter, starting to get to his feet. Iskra followed, a little more cautious and uneasy than her father. Soon after they were both standing again after what seemed like hours of torture, footsteps began to plod themselves across the hallway. Turning to the left, they saw that it was Roman, still holding his knife, but this time with a more relaxed language to his movements, a kind of bittersweet relief to his walk.

"I think the shelling's stopped." He spoke, his already deep voice scratchy and horse from hours of parchment. Iskra gave Christo a worried glance, and all he could do was offer a helpless shrug in reply.

Helpless. That's all he had felt these last several days, and it was the worst feeling in the world.

As if on cue, a sudden, quieter booming sound shook the air. Iskra yelped and grabbed Christo's hand as Roman turned to face the door.

"It's okay, that was just the thunder!" Anton's voice shouted from above. This declaration was quickly followed by the familiar scraping sound of the hatch on the floor slowly clicking open. The rusty, dirty hinges of the trapdoor scraped as it opened, and Boris's head popped out from the basement.

"Is it over?" He questioned in his slow, loud voice.

"For now." Christo sighed back.

"Th-th-thank g-g-god." Boris stammered as he began to climb out from the underground. As he finally stood up again, Ana began to make her way upstairs. Luka, still stricken with tears but much calmer than before, followed, and soon Marko, Alina, Bruno, Emilia, Lydia and Kalina started coming up. On the opposite side of the foyer, Irina limped her way down the ramshackle stairs, followed by Arica, who gripped the side of the banister-less wall, and then by Anton, then Cveta, then Zlata, then Katia, then Marin, and finally Pavle, who kept his hands in his pockets for the whole trip downstairs with a stoic expression on his face. From the backdoor on the other side of the hall, Henrik, Ivano, Misha and Sergei finally re-entered the mansion, Misha briefly stopping to shut the door behind him. This unusual team were regrouped in the foyer, and now they were safe. For a while, at least.

"Is everyone alright?" Anton broke the silence, the old man once more taking the position of group leader and the responsibility that came with it.

"No." Arica weakly groaned as she clasped onto Emilia. Emilia briefly flinched in disgust before settling back into the situation and becoming once again indifferent as the sick burglar held onto her. Once more, quiet had entered the mansion, and this gang was simply standing around in the room, staring at one another or their feet. Finally, the silence was broken.

"I still can't believe that the war is finally happening." Zlata mused, her eyes focused on the floor.

"This war's been going on for months." Marko responded. "It was bound to hit us sometime soon."

"But why? Why here? Why us?" Iskra suppressed a sob. "It's not our fault. We didn't do anything."

"The rebels don't care." Emilia, gritting her teeth. "To them, we all might as well be their mortal enemies. Their nemesis. Their…" She trailed off again. Her eyes drifted away to the distant window.

"We might as well be… Anyway, we can't just stand around talking all day. We need to get to work. I think there should still be some supplies in the building if we can reach them."

"Emilia is right." Anton stated. "There should still be some things in this dump we can use." He began turning to the others and making commands. "Marko, Pavle, Bruno, Boris, you four see if you can finally get that door unstuck. Marin, go check around the outer rooms and see if you can spot any damage the building has taken. Roman, Katia, Cveta, you and me are gonna watch for anything else coming. Ana, Luka, Emilia, Zlata, you guys go check on how the herbs are growing. Alina, Lydia, Kalina, you three see if you can clear that rubble from the second basement floor. Henrik, Ivano, Misha, Sergei, do you think you can check just outside and see if you can salvage any shrapnel from the neighbourhood?"

"Can do." Sergei shrugged.

"Excellent. Arica, Irina, you two go back to bed. You need to rest."

Nodding slightly, Irina began her weak stagger back upstairs to the bed. Arica followed, and before long, they had all taken off, abandoning the hall to pursue their assigned roles.

Fourteen days it had been since the first siren blasted across the previously quiet town. Twelve days it had been since nearly everyone was left either homeless or dead when the first shelling began. Seven days it had been since our heroes had all holed up in the old, abandoned mansion. Death was all around them. None of them had any explanation as to how they had been able to keep everyone alive other than a sheer, gigantic stroke of luck. But how long would that luck last for?

* * *

**_AUTHOR'S NOTES_**

Thank you for taking the time to read the first chapter of my very first story on the site. If you can't guess, it's a loose novelisation of This War Of Mine.

Please note that this story will feature moderate usage of artistic license throughout (such as Lydia and Kalina being Marko's children and Boris's family still being alive). More will develop as the story progresses.

Thank you again for reading. I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you stick around for future chapters.


	2. The Former Soldier

A pale, watery sun rose above the hill that adorned the valley where the mansion was set. The weak, slow rays of light that hailed the arrival of day were barely visible through the layers of grime caking the half-shattered windows of the run-down house. Much more unobstructed light filtered through the holes in the roof and walls of the top floor where Katia could finally see. A gentle breeze flew through the punctures, one that still stung with the faint scent of smoke. Supressing a cough, Katia rubbed her forehead with her fist and focused on the floor beneath her.

She was sure that when the mansion had been built and properly maintained, it must've been a truly beautiful place to live in. Now it was little more than a ruin. A depressingly ugly ruin. The rickety wooden floors were carpetless and darkened with large patches of damp.

Faded wallpaper was peeling from every wall where it had not already simply fallen off. Everything was broken, decaying and ravaged, and most of all, the whole place stunk of smoke and rot. Weeks of bombing, barely-extinguished fires and no attempts to put the place back together had reduced the building to nothing but a glorified shelter for a handful of miscreants, stuck together in the middle of this wretched war.

Leaning against the wall behind her, Roman shook his head, his long hair tossing itself around his field of vision as he turned his attention to one of the few remaining patches of dulled grey wallpaper left on the wall. A handful of fist-sized holes scattered across the wall let in a light that provided a cover of shadow over the wallpaper.

_Almost like a shotgun blast_, Roman thought to himself. He momentarily chuckled to himself at the thought that almost seemed to have been directly beamed into his mind by Sergei rather than generated by his own brain before that same painful memory forced its way through the barriers he had tried to set it behind and made it back to torment him. He shook his head again, this time much more violently, and held his hand over his face.

He never thought that someday he'd be running and hiding from his friends, but here he was, doing just that. They'd been like brothers, even called themselves such, and now he was a dead man to them.

Roman came from a town two or three miles south of the one that his new gang were walled off within. He'd lived there from his earliest memory to the day he'd volunteered for the militia, and through nearly all that time he and his crew had ruled the neighbourhood. When the war broke out just over six months ago, Roman's entire gang had signed up to join the insurgents that had moved into the town. It was going to be the ultimate showdown, and everyone wanted a piece of the action.

Of course, if he had known what the fight would eventually bring to him, he wouldn't have even bothered. Ever since they had joined the battle, his unit had always been in the thick of it. They were always the first ones in and the last ones out. Only when a full quarter of the squad had perished did the assholes at HQ decide to let them rest, and sent them up north to guard a small, relatively neutral town, telling them to hold it against the army and stop the fights that were breaking out there. The "battles" there were short and ugly, and the worst part of it all was that it was near impossible to tell whether or not the man who'd just crossed the street next to you was working for the enemy. Roman and his squad had been ordered to stay on their guard at all times and take some "extra precautions". Better to shoot one more guy than let them spin around and stab you in the back, Roman had told himself. But even then, there was something inside him that condemned him for subscribing to the concept of shooting anyone who looked at them funny.

As the borders between the armies got more stable, things got even uglier. Entire groups of civilians were to be rounded up, interrogated, and some even shot dead afterwards, reducing the number of witnesses left behind. Even back then, Roman had wanted no part in such a horrible thing. He was a soldier, a fighter, a kind of hero. Not a murderer, not a monster. That wasn't what being a soldier meant, was it?

Then that fateful day happened. The one he'd never forget. It was a routine assignment for that time – shooting another poor captive once they'd already grilled whatever they could get out of him. He and another man had been taken to a secluded room, where the target was gagged and bound, awaiting death. Roman wouldn't have wanted to do it anyway, but when the other scumbag had lifted the bin bag off the poor guy's head, that was when it went down.

It was Leon. His best friend for as long as he could remember, tied up in front of him. His eyes … Roman could never forgot the look in Leon's eyes. Pure fear, shock, and … betrayal. His betrayal. He had betrayed Leon by joining this wretched death squad, and now he was expected to just put him down with his own hands. Thankfully, when his fellow soldier handed him a revolver and yelled at him to take the shot, he still had enough sanity left to aim above Leon's head. His fellow executioner, on the other hand, did not.

With a single BANG that would never stop ringing in Roman's ears, the top third of Leon's head exploded off, splattering hideous brain matter and blood everywhere. The bastard told him that he would report this to the commanding officer and just walked off, leaving Roman behind, just staring at the mutilated body that was once a man so close he could have almost called him brother. Much more of a brother than his so-called "brothers in arms".

After this, he couldn't look his people in the face again. He wanted to kill them, kill himself, blow up the whole goddamn compound. But in the end, he managed to emerge without their blood on his hands. Roman had simply walked out. His friend Mike was on guard duty, and he had come up to him, in full uniform, lying through his teeth that he was just going off to grab some beer and that he'd be back by dawn. Mike fell for it, and let him through, and he'd left, hoping his friend wouldn't get too much flak for allowing the young man to run away into the darkness of the night.

Roman had no idea what'd he be able to say if he ever came across anyone from that compound again. He didn't know what they'd say, if they'd just accept that he'd lost it, or if they'd brand him a traitor and turn their guns to him. Most of all, he didn't know if he was just too weak to kill a friend, or if _they_ were just too weak to resist their sadistic dark urges.

* * *

_**Author's Notes**_

Hello again, ! It's been, what, almost nine months since my last update?! Sorry about that, but I tend to find myself working slow and getting distracted. I have GOT to try to work faster and more efficiently.

Sorry about this chapter being shorter than the first one, but I promise the next chapter will be of a similar length to the first. Hopefully, it won't take nearly nine months to write. Hah!

Anyway, as always, thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around for future chapters.


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